


The Lamps of His Eyes

by PrettyArbitrary



Series: Candlelight [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Captivity, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Control, Mindfuck, Sexual Slavery, Vampire Sex, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a doctor.  He used to be a soldier.  And he knows that before Sherlock he had a life he didn’t much want anymore.  He’s not sure whether it’s a smudged blur in his memory because Sherlock has made him forget or because it wasn’t very memorable in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lamps of His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deuxexmycroft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/gifts).



> Inspired by [this art](http://archiaart.tumblr.com/post/75334784647/sherlocks-skin-was-as-cold-as-the-steel-around) by [archiaart](http://archiaart.tumblr.com)/[deuxexmycroft](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/pseuds/deuxexmycroft).
> 
> Betaed by the redoubtable [michi_thekiller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/pseuds/michi_thekiller)!

"Come here, John."

Sherlock is standing in the bedroom doorway, silhouetted in the golden lamp light. John goes to him, wraps his hands around Sherlock’s bare biceps and lets strong arms come up around him.

Sherlock's thumb strokes at the place where John’s trapezius meets his collarbone. His mouth lowers to it and he bites.

John sighs through the pain and leans against him.

They solved a case today. That brings out Sherlock’s inner predator. He likes it when John is in danger; says he likes it when John is strong. It makes Sherlock thirsty for him.

They're standing, and then a bit later they're lying down. John loses track of the in between to a haze of sensation. If people knew what John was, they might ask him what it's like. Well no. They would run screaming. But if somebody had the courage, or the curiosity, to ask what being a vampire's thrall is like. It’s time replaced with small infinities, of hands gliding over his body, fingers biting bruises into his skin, soft bellies rolling against one another, pubic hair tickling. And bracketing eternity, the piercing throb of long teeth, sunk all the way into the root of his mind.

They withdraw from his trapezius and puncture again, needle-sharp and slow. The pain shoots straight to the core of him and then rolls out through his body in ripples. He gasps and fails to arch against Sherlock’s restraining strength as he’s penetrated further down, Sherlock’s cock blunter but just as all-encompassing. The flaring bulb of Sherlock’s glans drags plushly against his inner walls, petting him, and he can’t move from the waist up, but from the waist down he can’t stay still, his squirming working him further onto the instrument of his impalement.

 _Beautiful_ , he hears like a sigh in his head. Sherlock is in every cell, nowhere to hide. His pleasure thunders through John’s blood, and his excitement at getting to sink his teeth into John the way he’s wanted all day, ever since he saw John standing motionless and fierce with a criminal’s knife at his throat.

He’d moved almost too fast to see and then feasted on great gushing gouts of the most beautiful vivid red from the criminal’s neck. 

People don’t know what Sherlock is, mostly. That’s obvious, because nobody runs screaming from him, tries to kill him or passes out at his feet. At least, not over him being a vampire.

Lestrade knows, John thinks, but Sherlock’s done something to him. There’d been a searching in his eyes as he listened to Sherlock give his rundown of the scene afterwards. The way he looked at him, John knows that feeling; like Greg was trying to find something that’d fallen into the dark at the bottom of his mind. Or like he’s locked in behind his own eyes with a secret he can’t speak.

It makes John feel weird, that expression on Greg’s face. Not less alone, exactly, because even if it’s true, Greg can’t help John any more than he can help himself. But it’s nice to know someone understands, even if all they can do is trade silent looks from their respective glass cages.

Sherlock’s eyes are cold blue lamps in John’s mind, the way they’d glowed with jealousy at a blade pressing where his fangs belonged. Horny from hunting and killing and defending his property, Sherlock drinks slowly. He fucks slowly. He sips John, rolls him over his tongue and wafts the scent of his lifeblood up into his sinuses to savour it. They’ve been at this for hours now, probably. John would bet on it if asked. He can feel the blood as it’s pulled from his body, fellating his veins, and it sets up a resonance wave that ripples from one end of his body to the other, that _never stops._ Orgasms are a limited concept. He’s lost in the silken, hard delight of Sherlock’s arms for...hell, he doesn’t know.

Sherlock decides when to let John go, releasing him from that world of glowing ecstasy like a baby born into a dim room. John snuggles up against Sherlock’s nude, pristine body, warm from John’s life and smeared with John’s sweat and salt and cum, and sleeps in the same arms that hold him as thoroughly captive as ropes and chains ever could.

John is a doctor. He used to be a soldier. And he knows that before Sherlock he had a life he didn’t much want anymore. He’s not sure whether it’s a smudged blur in his memory because Sherlock has made him forget or because it wasn’t very memorable in the first place. Sherlock says the latter. He knows a lot about John; more, it sometimes seems, than John knows about himself.

And John’s not sure whether that’s because he’s forgotten or because that’s just how Sherlock is, either.

When he wakes, it must be morning, because Sherlock is still there, wrapped tight and...well, not as warm around John as he was earlier. He’s not room temperature, yet. Actually he’s quite comfortable, not stiflingly hot the way cuddling with another human gets, but warm enough to ward off the room’s chill. He’s also heavy, having rolled enough to catch John half underneath him.

He could kill Sherlock, he supposes. It’d take some doing, but he’s got all day while Sherlock is crashed out. He could work open the bolted bedroom shutters, or set something up with mirrors, and roast him where he lies. Mycroft would kill John in turn, but once upon a time, back when Sherlock kept him tied down out of necessity rather than enjoyment, he’d dreamed of that.

But it doesn’t seem so bad, these days. He’s let free of his ropes and chains. Taken on cases with Sherlock. No more struggling to make ends meet on a tiny pension, no more endless blurred days of depressed, pained boredom, significantly reduced loneliness. And the sex is great.

And if it bothers him a little, now and then, that he can’t quite decide whether his expectations were out of whack to begin with, or if they’ve become that way since...well, on balance what matters is that he’s happy, right?

John goes back to sleep for a while.


End file.
